Orchestral manoeuvres in the dark
by Bookjunk
Summary: Wherein Endeavour is a bit clueless and Joan is a bit manipulative. (Inspired by the story Help by Shakespeareanfish) Endeavour/Joan
1. First movement

**Orchestral manoeuvres in the dark**

**Chapter 1: First movement**

'You're not like other people, are you?' Joan asked. Morse winced. It was the sort of thing Jakes might have said with a sneer. Joan's tone was friendly enough, but the question confused him. On the one hand, it was clearly more of a statement than a question. On the other hand, the lilting thing her voice did at the end of the sentence was a verbal question mark and would indicate that it was indeed a question. It might have been a rhetorical question. He had never been good at recognising those. Sometimes he was far too inclined to take things literally. Morse settled for a remark that was related to what had quite possibly been a question.

'Nobody is like other people,' he replied, managing to sound stern. Joan was neither deterred nor impressed. She chuckled while her eyes searched his face. He fought the urge to fidget. No, no, he wasn't going to stuff his hands into his pockets either. That was a sign of weakness. He should be capable of controlling his hands without resorting to hiding them.

'It probably wouldn't hurt to adapt. No, I don't mean adapt. _Pretend_ to adapt a little,' she amended and nodded. Don't engage, Morse told himself.

'Feign?' he inquired.

'You probably can't feign. You look like you wouldn't be able to. Admirable quality.'

Joan was definitely mocking him now. Oh, why did Inspector Thursday always take so long to get ready? What was Mrs. Thursday doing in the kitchen that was so damn important? Where the hell was Sam? Morse cleared his throat.

'I could feign, perhaps. However, I don't think I possess the necessary information to feign. Nor, I'm afraid, the inclination,' Morse admitted. A stern note had crept into his voice again. He sounded positively fatherly. Pompous.

'Well, one of those I can help with,' Joan responded. Ignoring his stricken expression, she dashed up the stairs. Left alone on the doorstep, Morse allowed himself a brief fiddle with the hair at the nape of his neck. It was all going wrong; again.

Before leaving home for work, he had taken care to prepare a few safe topics for conversation. The weather. Nothing could go wrong when discussing the weather. Nobody had strong opinions about the weather. Music. They had talked about music before. They had vastly different tastes, but Joan was curious about opera and he was respectful towards the popular music she favoured. Music was a pleasant topic. Come to think of it, was music a tad too personal a topic? Surely not. At least, Morse fervently hoped that wasn't the case, because that would leave only the weather.

They couldn't discuss work, because of Inspector Thursday and Jakes and the rule of leaving it on the hall stand. They couldn't discuss clothes, films, haircuts, cars, the news, politics and so on. Every topic besides the weather and music either bored Joan to tears or elicited opinions that Morse could not for the life of him get behind. Honestly, the weather most likely also bored her, but that couldn't be helped.

Yet, here they were somehow not discussing either of the safe topics available. Joan always led him astray. One innocuous comment and what had he gotten himself into? How could he allow this to happen _every single time_?

Morse averted his eyes when Joan came down the stairs. It was the decent thing to do. Her clothing wasn't ideal for descending.

'Here,' she said, thrusting something at him. She was holding a record. Morse studied the cover. It looked absolutely dreadful. That one bloke's name alone... Well, he wasn't one to judge when it came to names, but still: _Garfunkel_. Parents can be beastly sometimes. Or was it perhaps his surname?

'I'm going to put it here, so that you don't have to carry it around all day. You can pick it up this evening when you drop...' Joan abruptly stopped speaking when the Inspector entered the hallway. He was frowning and looked preoccupied.

'Joan, have you seen my hat?'

Instead of answering, Joan giggled and winked at Morse. He suppressed a smile. Crankily, the Inspector turned towards Morse.

'It's on your head, sir,' he quickly pointed out.

'Ah. Well, I'm off then. Are you coming?'

Morse tipped his hat at Joan, momentarily forgetting that – unlike the Inspector – he was not wearing a hat. He squeezed his eyes shut briefly, exhaled and followed the Inspector to the car. Congratulations were in order. He had survived another one of Joan's interrogations.

The strange thing wasn't that Joan could unravel him within seconds. It was that he didn't seem to mind terribly. In fact, he looked forward to their chats in the morning. And, yes, it made him awfully nervous and he never knew where to put his hands, but it was also nice. Talking with a gentle push and pull. His social awkwardness for the most part not remarked upon. Perhaps even accepted? He didn't know how it was possible to feel at ease and like a raw bundle of nerves at the same time, but that was the effect Joan had on him. It was interesting, so say the least.


	2. Crescendo

**Chapter 2: Crescendo**

A few weeks later.

'You're very kind to have lent Joan one of your beloved records,' Thursday said. Morse cringed at the praise. The constable had always been silly about compliments, but the Inspector had noticed that lately his discomfort had taken on ridiculous proportions.

'I was merely returning the favour, sir,' Morse responded. The Inspector didn't mask his surprise at learning that Joan had initiated the exchange.

'Ah, I didn't know that. She appears to enjoy it. We're treated to a dose of opera every evening. Drifting down the stairwell,' Thursday elaborated. He carefully watched the constable's face without seeming to. Morse's mouth curved upwards. His eyes twinkled. Could it be? Could Morse be in love with Joan? That was entirely possible. After all, Thursday had mistakenly suspected a romantic entanglement between them before.

(***)

At the breakfast table.

'I heard that you were playing Morse's record again yesterday. Is it any good?' Thursday asked. Win and Sam perked up their ears at the mention of Morse's name. It warmed the Inspector's heart to think that every member of his family had taken an immediate liking to the clever constable.

'I don't know yet,' Joan said, thoughtfully. She frowned at her plate; fork suspended in mid-air. The Inspector observed his daughter. Distracted, she skewered a breadcrumb and contemplated it. This behaviour was unlike Joan. She wasn't usually absentminded. Joan was alert and decisive.

'You must have listened to it for a week straight now.'

Thursday hadn't meant it as criticism or a joke at her expense, but Joan clearly perceived it that way. With her mouth set, she put down her knife and fork.

'It takes some getting used to,' Joan replied, sharply. The doorbell rang. Joan made a move as if to get up and answer the door, but Sam beat her to it. Picking up her fork again, Joan shuffled her eggs around on her plate, ignoring Win's disapproving tut.

'Rather like Morse himself, don't you think?' Joan added, having softened her tone upon seeing her father's conciliatory expression. Everyone was staring at Joan now. Thursday cocked an eyebrow. He could feel Jakes appear at his right shoulder. For some reason, Jakes's presence at the breakfast table was always slightly disruptive. Thursday strove not to favour subordinates or, at least, not to let it show, but he couldn't deny that he experienced the rare times Jakes came to pick him up as intrusive. How different from Morse! Morse, who stuck out like a sore thumb almost everywhere else, blended right in here.

'It may take a while to appreciate, but it's worth the extra effort,' Joan continued, a little louder than necessary.

'Unlike some things. Sometimes when you look closer you discover that there's nothing much there,' she concluded, peering into the middle distance, which seemed to be situated directly behind the Inspector's right shoulder. Thursday knew his daughter's quasi-casual tone well. They all – excluding Jakes – knew what it meant. Affected detachment equalled genuine affection. And was that a dig aimed at Jakes?

'Are you in love, Joan?' Sam inquired, returning to the table. He sounded gleeful. Joan glared at him.

'Just because I say something nice about someone doesn't mean that I'm romantically inclined one way or another. Stop being such a child.'

Could Joan be in love with Morse? He wasn't her type. Too shy. Joan liked her chaps assertive. Bordering on insolent, to be honest. Morse was considerate. A gentleman. A bit weird, but all in all a man you'd safely entrust your daughter to. Though Joan would be absolutely horrified to know that she was being thought of in this manner. _Entrust to_, she would repeat with indignation; _what am I? A baby? A dog?_ Thursday chuckled.

Morse and Joan. Well, well. What a nice and unexpected development.


	3. Strings

**Chapter 3: Strings **

Still at the breakfast table.

Ingratiating; that's the word, Joan thought; watching Jakes's bald attempts to insinuate himself into the household. It was distasteful. Whenever he replaced Morse as her father's bagman, Jakes invariably ended up trying to weasel his way into her family. What on Earth had she ever seen in him? Well, he's handsome, I suppose, Joan mused.

(***)

A few days later.

'Morse? Morse!' Joan called out. People stared at her. It _is_ rather undignified, Joan thought. It occurred to her that onlookers might think that she was shouting a random noun. Something insane people did. Alas, that couldn't be helped.

Morse didn't look up or slow down. Joan hurried across the road, never pausing to wonder why she so desperately wanted to speak to him.

'Morse! Endeavour! Hello,' she enthused, panting a little. Morse seemed startled by her urgency. Now that she had finally managed to catch up with him, doubt crept in. Had calling him by his first name been too forward? She had merely reasoned that it might be more likely to draw his attention.

'Good evening, Joan,' he said, taking in her dishevelled appearance. Joan comforted herself with the unsubstantiated notion that he probably wouldn't mind that she looked a proper mess. She hoped that he was the kind of man who would be able to look past that. As it was, she had other concerns. What pressing matter warrants chasing someone down the road? Racking her brain for an explanation of her behaviour, Joan landed upon the record he'd lent her.

'Yes, a good evening to you too. I just wanted to let you know that you can visit and collect your record one of these days,' she told him.

'You've listened to it then?' he asked. There was something a trifle too innocent about the question. His eyes – it was usually his eyes that betrayed him; Morse was quite adept at keeping his features in check – looked upon her with amused delight.

'Yes, it is... it is interesting.'

'You didn't like it,' Morse said, as if stating a fact. The note of disappointment in his voice was unmistakable. If he hadn't been so reserved, his face might have crumpled. Joan was sure of it. She hastened to correct his erroneous assumption.

'No, it's not that,' she assured him. A woman bumped into her. They exchanged quick contrite smiles. Joan noticed for the first time how busy it was. As if out of the blue, the pavement was bustling with people returning home from work. Someone else bumped into her shoulder, but didn't offer an apology.

'Rude,' Joan muttered, giving the man in question the side eye. Gently, Morse took her elbow and steered her away from the crowd. They sat down on a nearby bench.

'So, what do you think of Puccini?' Morse asked. His hand still rested lightly on her arm. Joan didn't glance at it for fear that this would cause him to withdraw it.

'It's not that the music isn't beautiful. On the contrary, it's very beautiful. But not knowing what exactly is being sung is a disorienting experience. It makes everything else so much more important. Honestly, I think opera should be listened to sparingly.'

'How come?' Morse asked, intrigued. His hand remained.

'I don't know how to put this. Once you've listened to it a couple of times it becomes so affecting. So intense that it's almost unpleasant. I like my music a little less emotionally involved. Something to hum along to while getting ready for a party. You must think that I'm the most frivolous person,' she concluded, baffled by how uncharacteristically anxious she sounded. Morse sat up and removed his hand. He seemed annoyed. A vexed sigh confirmed this.

'What? What's wrong?' Joan inquired.

'Now I feel guilty. I listened to your record a few times and then decided that it wasn't for me. I didn't examine it as closely or as in depth as you did,' Morse admitted, studying her with renewed curiosity. 'Why did you?'

'I figured that if it engaged you there must be something to it. Plus, I wanted to know what appeals to you. I always like to know what the people I like are interested in,' Joan explained. Morse's eye lashes fluttered in consternation. It was Joan's turn to sigh.

'Don't look so surprised. You're eminently likeable. Besides, it's good to try something new every once in a while, isn't it?'

'Are we still talking about the record?'

It was a serious question, but when Joan silently regarded him, Morse recognised that it could be construed as a clumsy proposition. He shuffled his feet. How bothersome! Yet, he was smiling. That was par for the course, lately. He was acting very strangely. Forever at odds with himself. And he was beginning to think that he liked Joan, which was... inconvenient.

'You can keep it if you want. I've already bought another one,' he said. That was about equal parts floundering and flirting, but Morse didn't particularly care. Anything to break the charged silence. Unfortunately, Joan interpreted his well-meant suggestion as a veiled insult.

'Did you anticipate something happening to the record? Did you expect me to break it or damage it in some way?' she demanded.

'No, no, no. I simply thought that you might like to have it. It's one of my favourites.'

'You intended it as a gift.'

'I suppose I did,' Morse confessed. Why else would he have bought a second copy? He didn't believe that Joan was careless with other people's possessions. Granted, he didn't actually know that, but she didn't strike him as the type of person who would be.

'I couldn't possibly...,' Joan started to protest, before stopping herself. 'Are you certain?'

'Quite certain.'

She smiled. Morse inclined his head and returned the smile. It was a lovely moment.

'You do know this means that we'll have to go on a date? I can't accept a present from a virtual stranger. How about this Friday? Pick me up around seven?'

Morse nodded, dumbly. He felt as if he had been tricked into agreeing to something that he had wanted to do anyway, which was a most peculiar feeling.


	4. New arrangements

**Chapter 4: New arrangements**

The front door of the Thursday residence opened before Morse was halfway down the path. Joan appeared. Her head was turned, as if something inside had captured her attention. Morse considered it a nice bit of irony, since he figured that she was normally the one responsible for turning heads.

'Yes, yes. I'll be home on time, I promise. Bye now. Bye,' Joan called out. She closed the door and beamed at Morse.

Her pale throat was unadorned. Morse noticed. It was impossible not to. It was a beautiful throat. There was no necklace breaking the smooth expanse of skin. Morse had expected there to be a necklace. That explained the jolt he'd felt upon seeing her bare throat. Did it, though? Until now he had been unaware that he had been picturing Joan's throat at all. He flicked his gaze up. Had he stared? Oh God, he might have stared.

'Hurry,' Joan urged, glancing back at the house. Next thing he knew, she had clutched his arm and was attempting to drag him away. He didn't budge. She stopped when she caught the serious expression on his face.

'Please come with me,' he said.

'Inside?' Joan guessed. Morse nodded.

'I can't date you in secret,' he explained.

'Because you're decent,' she articulated and sighed. 'I expected as much. Still, you can't blame a girl for trying.'

Resigned, Joan started the walk back up the path. Morse saw that Joan was biting her lip. Perhaps she was worried about her father's reaction. In an attempt to expel her anxiety, Morse related the story about the Inspector's misunderstanding.

'Your father thought that it was me. That I was the one with you at the Moonlight Room. He appeared relatively fine with it. With us being involved.'

Joan stopped a few paces from the door. Her teeth released her bottom lip with a modest pop.

'What did he say exactly?'

'Be good to her.'

She considered that.

'Well, that's alright, I suppose. Sweet, in fact,' Joan conceded, reluctantly. With her fears assuaged, Morse tried to tend to his own.

'Could you...?' he began, faltering. 'Could you explain the situation? I wouldn't want your father to think that I in any way took advantage of our professional relationship to...'

'Seduce me? Fret not; I'll make perfectly clear that it was entirely the other way around. He knows how I get when I want something,' she assured Morse. He was taken aback; Joan was annoyed.

'Why do you insist on acting so bloody shocked whenever I express an interest in you? You're quite appealing, you know!' she snapped. Morse glared at her. The date was off to a wonderful start.

'Easy there, Joan,' the Inspector cautioned; thereby startling them both. Sheepishly, they gawked at the open front door.

'This is Morse,' Joan announced.

'Yes, I know the man,' Fred Thursday replied.

'I'm going out with him.'

'I'd gathered as much,' the Inspector retorted.

'Sir, I would like to say...' Morse began. He didn't get further before Joan assumed control of the conversation again. Perhaps it should have threatened his manhood or some such nonsense, but Morse rather liked how outspoken Joan was. Unfortunately, she proceeded to make him sound like a bit of a milksop.

'Morse didn't do anything. I manoeuvred him into a position where he was forced to take me out. Lord knows he would never have asked,' Joan explained. It wasn't an especially flattering assessment of his character. However, Morse had to acknowledge the truth of the statement. He would not have asked her out on his own initiative. He doubted whether the notion would even have occurred to him. His mind simply didn't work that way.

'That was undeniably the right course of action. Shall we?' Morse asked, offering her his arm. A confused frown wrinkled Joan's forehead. Hesitantly, she took his arm. They nodded at the Inspector and embarked on their evening together.

(***)

During dinner.

After a lengthy and absurd silence, Morse confessed that he was not in the best of spirits. Bantering with Joan earlier had served to divert him, but now he had reverted back to the gloomy mood in which he'd left the station.

'May I ask why your mood is less than agreeable?'

'It is work related.'

Joan was visibly miffed about the finality of this remark.

'I'm only adhering to your father's rule, Joan. It is a solid rule,' Morse answered her unspoken objection. Joan made a face and murmured something that sounded suspiciously like 'live a little.' Then her face softened and she leaned closer.

'The rule is there to protect us. I know that. But it puts a significant part of my father's life out of our reach. I don't think I would want that. If I married a police officer, I mean. I'd want him to be able to share his day with me,' Joan confided. Mischief lit up her eyes.

'Not that I'm thinking about marrying a police officer any time soon. Don't worry,' she added.

'I'm not worried,' Morse said, smiling slightly. He was beginning to think that Joan sometimes said the most outrageous things simply to see how he'd react.

'You don't appear worried,' she agreed. They looked at each other across the table. Dinner, their cutlery and the other guests were momentarily forgotten. After an interminable amount of time, they dropped their gaze and continued to eat.

'How do you know that your parents don't discuss your father's work? He might not discuss it in front on you and Sam, but perhaps he does share it with your mother,' Morse suggested. This angle was wholly new to Joan.

'Hmm, I didn't think... You might be right,' she admitted, taking another bite and chewing analytically. They spent the rest of the meal in a contemplative silence. It was a far more companionable silence than before.

(***)

After dinner.

Morse helped Joan into her coat. They stood outside for a while. He hadn't arranged anything more than dinner. He'd looked through the paper for something fairly harmless to do, but the problem was that – aside from her opinion about the weather and her taste in music - he hardly knew Joan.

'Of course, the biggest drawback would be the unbearable possibility of him getting injured,' Joan reflected, picking up the conversation where they'd left off. Morse could well imagine that other people would find this an unnerving habit. He often invoked similar feelings with a series of bizarre quirks that didn't seem very bizarre or very quirky to himself. As it was, it endeared her to him.

'Your fictional husband who is on the force?' he asked, seeking to humour her. Joan glanced at him with mild reproach.

'Yes. Stabbed and shot and God knows what else.'

Morse didn't fail to note that she happened to name the two incidents that had befallen him in the line of duty. Belatedly, Joan realised the same thing. To stave off embarrassment, Morse quickly spoke.

'Do you want to go somewhere or do you want me to take you home already?' he asked. There was no need to speculate about his preference, was there? _Already_.

'Neither. I don't want to go see a film or go to a concert or do anything else that might keep me from getting to know you better. Let's just talk,' Joan proposed.

'What do you want to talk about?"

'You. Wasn't that obvious? I want to unravel the mystery that is Endeavour Morse. Wait, I've changed my mind. Let's go someplace. Talking is easier when you're walking.'

Joan linked her arm through his.

'It's not my aim to be mysterious,' Morse said. It was the best he could do under the circumstances. Joan had a tendency to overwhelm him. Her enthusiasm was contagious, but at times it could also be somewhat exhausting.

'Oh, I'm aware. Nonetheless, you exude a sense of unknowableness.'

'That's not actually a word.'

'It should be.'

With that they arrived at a park. Joan told him to turn the other way. Befuddled, Morse obeyed. She placed a hand on his shoulder to steady herself. When he was allowed to look again, she had taken off her shoes.

'Do you mind? I am fond of the feeling of wet grass between my toes.'

'By all means. Those shoes look uncomfortable,' Morse remarked, watching her wriggling toes.

'Indeed, they are. Very much so. But they make my legs look fabulous, don't you think?' Joan solicited. Abashed, Morse nodded. He didn't understand the source of his reticence. Joan had made it abundantly clear that she was interested in him and he certainly liked her.

'There's nothing wrong with admiring a woman's legs if you do it right,' Joan lectured. 'A little attention is almost always appreciated. Don't leer. Be subtle. You're quite good at it.'

My body is exceedingly tiresome, Morse thought with his face and ears burning. Joan smirked; confirming his idea that she enjoyed getting a rise out of him.

'Oh dear, have I affronted your delicate sensibilities again? You have to learn how to gracefully accept a compliment, Morse,' she teased.

'You don't need those shoes. Your legs are stunning without them too,' Morse declared, bluntly. Joan blushed. It was a joyous sight. Emboldened, he dared to harken back to the original topic of their conversation. The one he'd abandoned to avert awkwardness.

'I don't know whether I'd be suitable for marriage.'

'Why not?'

'I like things a certain way.'

'Everyone does.'

'I don't think too much compromise is good.'

'But what constitutes too much? Isn't that different for everyone? Maybe your wife won't want you to compromise. She might like you the way you are. I do.'

'You told me I needed to adapt!' Morse protested, laughing.

'No, you're misremembering. I said that you should consider _pretending_ to adapt. That's not the same. And I think that I know why you're wary of compromise. Losing yourself in another person is so easy. And there's nothing romantic about it. It's not something you should want,' Joan responded. She spoke with such vehemence that Morse imagined she'd had many debates with other women regarding this subject. All futile, presumably.

It would have been a lot less complicated if she hadn't been Thursday's daughter, he thought. Though she wouldn't have been so quintessentially Joan then. And he probably wouldn't have liked her. Out with it.

'You wouldn't be Joan if you wanted that. And I wouldn't like you any other way.'

'Well, there we are,' she said, pleased. 'We're just right for each other. I've decided that I'm going to marry you.'

Joan was looking at him expectantly. Trying to detect any signs of panic. Morse smiled. He was not worried at all.

'Perhaps we should kiss first?' he submitted.

'Sound plan,' she agreed.

They did. They kissed. They kissed with Joan standing on tiptoes. They kissed with Morse's hand cradling her neck. They kissed with Joan's soft hair against his face. They kissed for an eternity and still it wasn't enough. They parted with flushed cheeks.

'Encore?' Joan whispered. And who was Morse to ignore a lady's request?


	5. Outro with the greatest of ease

**Chapter 5: Outro with the greatest of ease**

At the end of the night.

The last few years, Morse had come to think of himself as a bachelor in a permanent sense. Not in a woe-is-me way, but in a my-life-is-fine-as-it-is sort of way. It would have been tedious, but comfortable. Enter Joan.

'You think that upholding the law is dull?' Morse repeated. He couldn't help sounding incredulous. Frankly, he felt insulted.

'Well, not that exactly... I simply think the other side would be a bit more exciting,' Joan amended. Morse stared at her.

'The other side?' he sputtered. He sincerely hoped that he was misunderstanding her. Idolising crime wasn't someone he'd ever pictured Joan doing.

'Breaking the law,' Joan clarified to Morse's horror.

'Being arrested is certainly exciting,' he laughed in an attempt to disabuse her of these foolish romantic notions. Joan smiled and wagged her finger.

'See, now, I wouldn't get arrested, of course. I would be too clever a criminal.'

'They always get caught in the end. Even the clever ones,' he said. That wasn't strictly true, but Joan was not to know that.

'I could break out of prison,' she improvised. 'I believe they occasionally do that.'

'Sure. After which they promptly get caught, because they visit an old girlfriend or their mother,' Morse pointed out.

'I think that's crummy. If I showed up on your doorstep, would you turn me in?'

'I'd have to, wouldn't I, if I wanted to remain a policeman? I can't be seen aiding and abetting a fugitive.'

Joan snorted. She could be so unladylike at times. Even in the midst of this thoroughly preposterous conversation, though, Morse could appreciate her honesty and passion.

'Morse, really, you must master the art of telling someone what they want to hear,' she chided.

'I believe that's called lying,' Morse objected. Joan sighed.

'No, that's called trying to get along. As if I would ever have the opportunity to find out that you were going to give me up. There's no organised crime in my future, I'll have you know. It was a hypothetical question.'

'If you did find yourself in that predicament I wouldn't want you to turn to me, because I would feel obligated to disclose your location to the police and I wouldn't want to put you in that unenviable position. I'd rather you didn't risk visiting me, so you'd be able to remain free,' Morse explained. He could see that Joan was becoming annoyed again. It didn't faze him. He rarely agonised over how to behave around Joan anymore. If Joan was feeling contrary – which was surprisingly often - Morse merely shrugged and acted accordingly.

'You're being deliberately obtuse,' Joan accused.

'Just regular, genuine obtuseness, I'm afraid. I'm sorry.'

Joan reached over to smooth down his unruly hair. Her fingers slid down to the small curls at the back of his neck.

'You're chivalrous to a fault,' she remarked.

'I happen to love you,' Morse confessed. It was a nice thing to say. It was also excessive. Bad. Joan scowled and distanced herself from him.

'Are you saying that because you think it's what I want to hear?' she asked. Morse shook his head. Hesitantly, she smiled. It took a while for her smile to become the sun. The moon. The stars. Pick your metaphor. Joan was the centre of the universe and her smile was the source of all light.

'I love you too,' Joan said.

'Well, that's a relief,' he replied. She started to laugh. Morse regarded her with mixed feelings. This is too fast and too intense, he thought. They were completely unsuitable for each other. It would never work.

She was loud, vibrant energy; he was the one who - irritated yet politely - asked people to turn down the music at parties. She was the cyclone; he was the calm middle. Neither were capable of pleasantries. Both were abrasive. Where she became emotional, he withdrew. They were a disaster waiting to happen.

Joan was forever on the verge of either snapping at him or showering him with kisses. Her vulnerability was hidden underneath her temper. She was only ever mock sultry. She spelled trouble. Morse found her absolutely adorable. Or, more accurately, he adored her.

This was crucial. _Joan _was crucial.

The end.


End file.
